Please don't go

When I am writing blog posts late at night, I almost always play music on my computer in the background. It helps me think.

Although I am at an age where I should despise modern music, I don't. Not all of it anyway. I like a wide variety. But more often than not, I'll go back to the good ol' days for my background tunes. And for me, that is the '80s, when I want to remember high school and college, and the '70s, when I want to remember childhood.

So that's where the deaths of Michael Jackson and Farrah Fawcett hit me, right in the middle of memories that I will always treasure. Michael Jackson's music was the soundtrack to my senior year in high school. "Beat It" was the anthem to the final four months before graduation, and freedom. You were nothing, and I mean nothing, if you didn't own the album "Thriller." You name a month in 1983 or 1984 and I can tell you what the hit Michael Jackson song was at that time.

Farrah Fawcett was a couple of years before my time, and by "my time," I mean, "of lusting age." By the time I was old enough to be willing to sell my brother into child labor for a glimpse of "Charlie's Angels," Fawcett was gone, and I had to settle for Cheryl Ladd ("settle," is a terrible word. Cheryl, I do apologize).

But I remember seeing the poster in stores. Everywhere.

So you have Farrah's poster and Michael's album cover and you have the two major pop backdrops to my youth. And I don't want my youth to go. Not yet. I'm really still 19, you know. I can't even drink yet. Don't tell my parents.

The whole thing is sad and shocking, although really it shouldn't be anymore upsetting than when anyone else dies at a young age. I'm horrified anytime anyone youthful perishes in a car accident.

So, to put a positive spin on things, if that's possible, I looked back at a few other key people in my life when I was growing up. A few ballplayers and some other folks and found out that they're still kicking. What a relief!

For example, Garry Maddox, my favorite non-Dodger when I was growing up. Maddox is still with us, a master BBQ chef according to wikipedia, and 59 years old.

Pat Benatar. Man, did I like her! And I loved this album cover. She's 56, still lovely, and still belting her heart out. Thank goodness. I bought like six of her albums (not even compact discs were available then, my friends).

"The Roadrunner," Ralph Garr is still moving, albeit maybe a wee bit more slowly at age 63. He's working with the Braves in some sort of capacity. I bet you could never get him to wear that White Sox get-up again. People grow wiser when they're older.

"Howling Mad" Murdock is still howling. He's also still acting, although not as if he's a mental patient. I refused to miss a single episode of the "A-Team," when it was on. It was one glorious hour every week of mindless violence and immature-yet-PG-rated humor. I could feel my brain rotting during each episode. It felt wonderful.

Rick Reuschel is still around and signing autographs. He just turned 60. He seemed like he would pitch forever. And the longer he played, it seemed, the larger he got. But he continued to pitch better and better. And some of those later years were with the Giants. So, I can't say I was pleased.

All of the Sweathogs, as well as Mr. Kotter, are doing just fine. I think everyone on the planet was watching this show in 1976. Including lucky me on Thursday nights when my baby-sitter let me stay up. She cracked up through the entire show. Vinny Barbarino, Arnold Horshack, Epstein and Freddy "Boom-Boom" Washington. I'll remember those guys always.

And speaking of Washingtons, here is Claudell. Still with us. Couldn't tell you what he's doing, but I know he's 54! And he was one of the 885 outfielders the Yankees used between 1976 and 1990. This card here is also one of four final cards I needed to complete the 1989 Topps set.

You can't discuss my teenage years without bringing up the name Phoebe Cates. "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" was a truly epic moment for just about anyone in my class in 1982. And when I found out Phoebe Cates shared my birthday, I just knew if I ever met her, I would blurt out that bit of information and, well, who knows what would happen after that? Alas, Ms. Cates has been married for awhile, is 45, doesn't act a lot anymore, and owns a boutique in New York.

Glenn Hubbard can be found on the TV anytime you watch a Braves game. He's 51 years old and their first base coach. But when I was growing up, anytime I would see Hubbard on TV I would wait for Vin Scully -- working for NBC at the time -- to call him "The Bearded Wonder," because Scully would do it EVERY TIME. It drove me a bit wacky.

The original shredder, Eddie Van Halen, is -- and I'm a bit surprised by this, too -- very much with us, despite a degenerative hip condition, alcohol issues and cancer. He is 54 now (can you believe that?) He is supposed to be married this month. Maybe he already has been, I don't know. During my high school years there were several key bands that were always cool: Styx, Rush, Def Leppard and Genesis. But Van Halen was so far above all those others that you instantly forgot them the instant you heard an Eddie guitar lick. Rock on, Eddie.

And lastly we have Stormin' Gorman. He is 58 years strong and making personal appearances for the Brewers. There is no other player that we did not want to be more than Gorman Thomas while growing up. Of course, we never told anyone that. Tell your mom you wanted to be a long-haired masher with a mustache and spit all day long? No, mom wouldn't go for that. And that's what made Gorman cool.

There, that made me feel better. Yes, Farrah and Michael are not here anymore. But Gorman, Murdock, Phoebe, Claudell, the Sweathogs and the Roadrunner are. Time, go ahead and "Hit Me With Your Best Shot." We ain't dead yet.